Dillinger

‘I’ve re-opened an old gold mine near my hacienda at Hermosa. That’s a small town in the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre, towards the American border. Hermosa and the area around it is rough country. The peasants are animals and the Indians who work the mines ...’ He shrugged. ‘But you will find this out for yourself. What I need is a man of authority, who will work with me for six months or a year. Keep discipline. You know what I mean?’

This guy was fascinating, Dillinger thought. ‘Who keeps discipline for you now, Mr Rivera?’

‘Ah,’ Rivera said. ‘I had a good man, also an American, very tall, very strong. He didn’t want to go back to the States, the police bothered him there, and so he had an accident and now I have to replace him. I hope with you.’

‘In one sentence,’ Dillinger said, ‘not a chance.’

‘You have not heard my terms, senor. Two thousand dollars in gold for six months, five thousand dollars in gold for a year.’

Dillinger was really tempted to tell this fancy jerk that he’d made that much in five minutes by vaulting over a counter and emptying a teller’s drawer.

‘En oh,’ Dillinger said. ‘That spells no. But how would you like to work for me while I am in Mexico? You could be my guide. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a month, how’s that?’

Anger blazed in Rivera’s dark eyes. The jagged white scar that bisected the left cheek that Dillinger hadn’t paid attention to before seemed to stand out suddenly against the brown skin. Rivera took a cigarillo from his breast pocket and lit it. When he looked up, he had control again.

‘I know you did not mean to insult me, Senor. You do not know the ways of Mexico.’ He took a slow puff. ‘I usually get what I want, Senor Jordan. We have a saying: A man must be prepared to pay for past sins. I will pay you double what I paid the other American if you return to Hermosa with me. My final offer.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Dillinger said gently. ‘I’m really here on a kind of vacation.’

He was aware of the sweat trickling from his armpits, soaking into his shirt and poured himself a glass of iced water, then remembered Rivera’s warning.

Rivera said calmly, ‘Your final word?’

‘Yes. Sorry we can’t do business.’

Rivera walked to the door and opened it. ‘So am I, Senor Jordan. So am I.’

He closed the door behind him and descended the wide wooden stairs to the lobby and went outside. He found the old man who was guarding Dillinger’s convertible sitting on the bench, a small bottle of tequila in hand. So, he’d spent some of the money already.

‘Hello, Fallon, I thought I recognized you. Having a difficult time of it lately?’

The old man looked at him sourly. ‘You should know, Mr Rivera!’

‘You needed a lesson, my friend,’ Rivera said, ‘but that’s history now. You can come back and work for me at Hermosa any time you like.’

‘That’s not work, Mr Rivera. It’s slavery.’

‘As you choose. Who is this Senor Jordan?’

‘Jordan?’ The old man stared at him blankly. ‘I don’t know any Jordan.’

‘The one you were talking to. He owns the automobile. Who is he? What’s his game?’

‘I ain’t telling you a damn thing,’ Fallon said.

Rivera shrugged, walked along the terrace. Two men were sitting at the end table eating frijoles, a bottle of wine between them. One was a large, placid Indian with an impassive face, great rolls of fat bursting the seams of his jacket. The other, a small, wiry man in a tan gabardine suit, his sallow face badly marked from smallpox, got to his feet hurriedly, wiping his mouth. ‘Don Jose.’

‘Ah, my good friend, Sergeant Hernandez.’ Rivera turned and glanced towards Fallon. ‘I wonder if you might consider doing me a great favour?’

Hernandez nodded eagerly. ‘At your orders, as always, senor.’

Twenty minutes later, Fallon surfaced with a shock as a bucket of water was hurled in his face. One side of his face hurt from his eye to his jaw. He was lying in the corner of a police cell. The big Indian who stood over him must have hit or kicked him. Fallon’s side hurt as much as his face. Sergeant Hernandez sat on the bunk. Fallon recognized him instantly and went cold.

‘What is this? What have I done?’

‘You are a stupid man,’ Hernandez told him.

‘I’m an American. You have no right to put me in here,’ Fallon said.

‘If you don’t like our ways, why don’t you go back? You want me to escort you to the border and turn you over to your Federalistas?’

Fallon shook his head.

‘You are here because to go back there you have to spend fifteen years in jail, is that not so?’

The massive Indian moved within kicking distance of Fallon on the floor.

‘You see,’ Hernandez said, ‘he only knows one thing, kicking.’

Fallon rolled away from the Indian, which brought him closer to Hernandez.

Hernandez leaned down and whispered to him, ‘I think you will now stop being stupid. Now I think you may even try to be sensible? Is this not so?’

‘Sure,’ Fallon muttered.

The cell door opened and Rivera entered. He glared down at Fallon.

Hernandez said, ‘Senor Rivera has some questions to put to you. You will answer them. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ Fallon moaned.

‘Excellent.’ Rivera said and sat on the bunk. ‘Let’s start again then. This man, Harry Jordan. Who is he?’

A slight wind lifted the edge of the dingy lace curtains in Dillinger’s room. The place had that strange, derelict air common to rooms in cheap hotels the world over. It was as if no one had ever really lived there. As Dillinger lay on the bed, he heard the great bell of the church toll, and it reminded him of Sunday mornings in Indiana when he was twelve. He’d led his neighbourhood gang – all sixth-grade boys – in a foray to steal coal from the Pennsylvania Railroad and sell it to the women in town. He remembered the happy days in Gebhardt’s pool hall, and the even happier times playing baseball. He loved it because it was two games being played at the same time, winning against the other team, and being watched by the girls, who always went after the boys who had played best immediately after the game. Some of those older girls had terrific figures, not like these Mexican women. Jesus, was he getting homesick so soon?

He had to wait it out till the hunt for him cooled off. He had to be steel, like the time he found strength to pour acid on his heel in prison so he could get transferred to yard duty. They owed him nine years! He remembered how good he felt – like he was flying – when he got out of jail that first time. He wasn’t going to spend any more time ever behind bars.

The knock on the door stopped his reverie. He hoped it was the damn bellboy with the bottled water he’d asked for more than an hour ago. God, things moved slow in Mexico!

‘Come in,’ he yelled. ‘The door’s open.’

What came in wasn’t the bellhop but a small wiry man in uniform with a pock-marked face.

‘Police, senor,’ pock-marks said. ‘I am Sergeant Hernandez. May I see your passport?’

Dillinger looked across the room to the dresser where his Colt automatic lay in its holster. The sergeant followed his eyes.

Dillinger swung his feet off the bed, went to his jacket, took out the Harry Jordan passport and handed it to Hernandez, who went through it page by page, his face expressionless.